


Enough

by Inkblot9



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Acceptance, Conversations, Explanations, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Gen, Hugs, Introspection, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Unconditional Love, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 03:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6838015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblot9/pseuds/Inkblot9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For months, Dipper Pines had been searching for the Author of the Journals.</p><p>For decades, Stanford Pines had been searching for himself.</p><p>This is the point where those axes intersect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> I had an assortment of other ideas of what to write next, but this ended up happening instead. Hope it's decent!

Only a few days remained before the end of the summer. Much had happened, and a good deal had  _yet_  to happen, but still there was time to take a breath or two in between suitcase-packing and party-planning.

A quiet peace had settled over the small Oregon town. Talk pertaining to the near-apocalypse had been minimal, what with the cries of  _Never Mind All That!_ still ringing in the townspeople's ears. Understandable enough that a bunch of simple mortals, however quirky in their own rights, might want to gloss over quite literally being thrown into a nightmare.

Beyond any potential trauma, however, Gravity Falls had also been graced with a different feeling entirely. Something was growing beyond the inherent sense of Northwestern small-town companionship and hospitality. People seemed kinder. People seemed _happier_. From lumberjacks to reporters and waitresses to farmers: they all seemed to know that they had each other to count on, even if demons from another dimension were to burst through the sky.

Stanford scoffed inwardly, at himself and the thirty-year-old writings that had burnt to dust.

_Trust No One._

_Trust No One._

_Trust No One._

Had he remained so tightly adhered to that mantra, he would be a dead man today. The rest of the universe would soon have followed.

Ford and Dipper— _nerds of a feather_ , Stanley had ribbed when he strode past—were seated on the porch stairs of the Mystery Shack, idly sharing conversation and Pitt Colas that had long turned flat and tepid. A pair of short legs swung back and forth, sneakers drumming on the steps. Older, withered hands gripped the equally worn-out wooden slats.

Silence had grown between the two after Dipper explained that he had opted not to take on Ford’s apprenticeship after all: that he wished to grow up beside his sister. He had spoken softly and cautiously, feeling, in his own words, “kinda crummy” for going back on his word, and uncertain about how his uncle might react.

But after all recent events and some consideration of his own, Ford was in complete understanding. He believed Dipper was making the wise choice, and he articulated as much. It had been foolish of him to assume that such a dark, lonesome lifestyle would suit the boy in the end. Foolish to believe it had been beneficial for anybody he knew, himself included.

Even more foolish that it nearly took the end of the world for him to understand that.

His nephew and niece's relationship had astonished and inspired him many times over in the short span of their acquaintance. Deeper, more latent thoughts were hoping that he and his own twin could learn to emulate them before they grew too old to do much besides lie around and grumble about what might have been.

Again he cast his mind around the wild summer that had shaken all of Gravity Falls to its core. Now that the dust had settled, it seemed the man who had spent decades adrift had finally replanted his feet on solid ground. It would appear that he had a family again, and a place to call home. That was easy enough to say, but a question nagged at him still.

_Did they even need him?_

Dipper and Mabel had found answers in days’ time that he himself couldn’t unravel in years’. Stanley had rebuilt the Portal with less than a high school education, and then stood up to hammer the last nail in Bill’s metaphorical coffin. Fiddleford had constructed the Shacktron—and goodness knew what else—with only a fraction of his mind intact.

And so on.

Every person he’d met since his return, he’d seen them do something incredible. What did they need another bitter old man for? Ever since he came back to Earth, he had always been the one who needed _saving_ , far from the hero his twenty-something self had liked to think he was.

Ford coughed. “I suppose our summer is drawing to a close, eh?" he murmured. "I’ve only known you and your sister for a short time, but you both have grown to mean a great deal to me. I…I only wish I could have done more for you.”

Dipper turned to face him. He blinked slowly, as if confused.

“Great-Uncle Ford,” he began tentatively, “it was our first week in Gravity Falls that I found your Journal, by complete accident. I thought it would be my key out of the most boring summer ever and into the adventure of a lifetime. And it was, but…not in the way I expected.”

Curious, Ford raised an eyebrow.

“Sure, it led me and Mabel to some pretty cool monsters and junk,” Dipper laughed, “but…it also led us to you. All summer long, I wanted to find the Author because I thought he could teach me about all the mysteries of this town, answer all my questions. But you ended up being so much more than that. Like when you dropped everything just to play D, D, and More D with me, or the times you’d come up from the basement to have lunch with us, and stuff like that.

"I mean, you _do_ know a lot about Gravity Falls, and the supernatural, and even B- _Bill_. You couldn’t have written those Journals otherwise! But you don’t have _all_ the answers. You’re not that all-knowing _Author_ -with-a-capital- _A_ that I might've imagined at first.”

Ford snorted. _Ain’t that the truth,_  a voice in his head snarked, with more of a sharper Jersey accent than usual.

“But that’s okay, because that just means you’re human!” Dipper exclaimed. “And you ended up being my _family_ , and that’s…I think that’s even _better_ than any weird, paranormal thing might’ve been. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that stuff is great too, and I’m always up for, uh,  _discussion thereof_ …but I’d take my Grunkle over any of it, any day.”

Dipper’s Pines-brown gaze was serious and sincere. Ford found himself taken aback, overwhelmed by the level of honest emotion in the boy's words.

All his life, he had striven for greatness. It was the only way, or so he rationalized, that he could make a name for himself beyond  _wimpy nerd_ or _one_ _of the loser twins_ or  _six-fingered freak_. So he threw himself face-first into his academics, into his inventions, into anything and everything that could make him  _somebody_.

A shipwrecked sailboat. A research grant. A deal with an all-seeing demon. All of it served to fuel his hunger, his boundless desire for the stars. If he could reach a little farther, maybe, just maybe, he'd become who he was supposed to be.

And now what? He had practically touched the stars, now, and they had only served to burn his skin and freeze his soul. His scar-crossed body was just about all he could show for his efforts. The  _Stan o' War_ , the Perpetual Motion Machine, the three Journals, the Portal—a lifetime of work, all crumbled and collapsed, whether through Cipher's destruction or Ford's own carelessness.

And here this child, his great-nephew, the family he didn't know he had, was saying that he would choose the battered and broken shell of a nobody over any real mystery, over any real hero.

When he thought further, Ford realized that Dipper wasn't even the first person to imply such a thing. After all, all those times he had fallen into peril and shame, the family had come to his aid, beginning with his brother and the thirty long years he spent attempting to reignite the gateway between worlds.

He thought of Stanley, who had thrown his arms open wide, yet again, to the brother who had shut the door on him more than once.

He thought of Fiddleford, who had forgiven the fallacies of his old friend immediately upon the briefest of reunions.

He thought of Mabel, who hadn't flinched at the anomalous handshake of a man who was little more than a stranger.

He thought of Dipper, who had enjoyed a board game in the basement far more than he had a raid of an abandoned spacecraft.

He thought of all of them, the hands linked together in a circle of desperate faith and unconditional trust. They were quite the crew, all a little weird, all a little messy. All of them had been drawn to this place, and to each other. And why not? Ford had said it himself, not a week prior:  _This town is a magnet for things that are special._

These strange and wonderful human beings and the bonds they shared were quickly becoming his favorite anomaly of all.

Even after all he had done, all his failures and shortcomings, these people still stood by him. Not even five minutes out of interdimensional purgatory and some kid he had never met was screaming with delight over his scattered, useless bits of research. Underneath his efforts to remain outwardly composed, it had made his pride swell more so than any professor's laudation or false muse's false praise. And when Dipper had found that his elusive idol was nothing more than a second miserable great-uncle, he only seemed to become  _more_ endeared, rather than repulsed.

It occurred to Stanford that maybe this was where he could finally stop running, if only for a short blip on the infinite timeline of the universe. Maybe this was where he could rest his aching feet, heavy eyes, and weary mind.

Maybe this was home. Maybe this was enough.

He turned his head back to the boy beside him. The torn brim of Dipper's cap was casting a crooked shadow across his face. He looked out at the woods with what could be wistfulness, or perhaps a sort of acceptance of all that had changed. He appeared wiser, older than the round cheeks and scruffy hair alone might imply. And it wasn't only because of his impending birthday.

Suddenly, as if he had forgotten how to think in logical steps, Ford reached for the boy and pulled him into a hug. He clasped his arms around his nephew's smaller shape: tightly so no monster could steal him away, yet gently in hopes he would know he was loved.

"Thank you, Dipper," Ford whispered. "Thank you."

His glasses began to slide off his nose as he leant into Dipper's shoulder. No matter. Maybe if they fell off his face, nobody would see they were misting.

"Uh…for what?" The words were muffled against layers of sweater and coat.

Ford exhaled deeply. He reared his head back until he could look his nephew straight on.

"Thank you," he said, "for showing me that there are many things that I have yet to learn."

Dipper smiled, slowly at first, and then all at once his face erupted into the widest of beaming grins. Ford elicited a soft _oof_  as the boy threw his own arms around his neck.

The first appearance of blue ballpoint ink in Journal Three had taught Ford that the common Gravity Falls gnome was powerless against the force of a leaf blower. A few pages later, the same scrawled handwriting made him begin to reconsider his views on trust, on family, and on his life in general.

Perhaps he had had his priorities misaligned all along. A dozen degrees had done him little good when reality was falling apart. No being here, human or otherwise, would think any differently if he happened to be short a few Ph.D.s.

It surely seemed that Dipper didn't need him to be Doctor Stanford Filbrick Pines, the man who changed the world.

All he wanted was worn, tired, old Grunkle Ford.

So they held there for a moment, simply breathing, and that was enough.

"Hey…Grunkle Ford?"

"Yes, my boy?"

"I heard what you said earlier. I wish we could've had more time together too." Dipper's voice took on a brief heaviness, then returned to a brighter tone just as quickly. "But Mabel and I had the Journal all summer, so the way I see it, you were kinda with us the whole time. Showing us the way, on that  _dark, weird road you travel_." He lifted his head and winked. Ford grinned.

Then their attention was caught by the sudden creak of the back door. When they turned, they found themselves peering into the faces of their twins.

Mabel stepped onto the porch, holding her sticker-adorned scrapbook to her chest. Stanley was close behind. His eyes were bright, free from any blankness or pain.

"Jeez, you two still out here?" Stan squinted towards the setting sun. "We interrupting some secret nerd thing, or what?"

Dipper shook his head. Ford shrugged.

Mabel looked her brother and her second Grunkle up and down, as if attempting to deduce a difficult puzzle.

She cupped her chin. "I don't suppose there's room for two more in that hug…" 

A series of inconclusive glances passed between the four Pineses, until Ford took the cue. "Absolutely," he stated with a nod, adjusting his glasses with two fingers. "Pardon me, Dipper," he grunted as he repositioned himself. Carefully, he slipped off his trenchcoat, fully exposing the carmine sweater beneath. It was not so much an action against the summer heat, but to welcome another source of warmth. Almost immediately, his brother's arm was cast around his shoulders, and his niece bounced into his lap alongside her own twin.

"Oh my gosh, Grunkle Ford, did we tell you about the time we got a quarreling teenage friend-group back together with a little help from a real, live Love God?!"

"You mean the time you _stole_  the Love God's love potion to try and help someone we didn't even like!"

"No, I don't believe I heard that particular story…but if it's anything like the others you have in that scrapbook, I'm sure it's quite the compelling tale!"

"Was that the day of that hippie music festival? Tell me you got a picture of my balloon in there. That was a real work of art!"

Words and thoughts and sighs and laughs would bubble around them for a good time longer. No one would feel obligated to move until the sun was far below the horizon and the moon took its turn to cast its silver glow on the late summer night.

This rickety old shack— _the_ Shack—hadn't been Ford's home when it was his house. It took more than a loose structure of planks and a radio antenna to make a home. Something more had to fill the space, and that  _something_  hadn't been glass pyramids or toxic waste.

That something was here now.

And it was enough.


End file.
